


flowers on his grave

by kayewritessometimes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Disaster Harry Potter, Bitter Harry Potter, Closeted Harry Potter, Death makes a 'blink and you'll miss it' cameo, Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Existentialism, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mended Soul, Mutual Longing, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Harry Potter, POV Tom Riddle, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Post-War, References to Past Attractions/Crushes, Sane Tom Riddle, Self-Indulgent, Soulmates, Tom Riddle appears to be in his thirties, Tom Riddle is a Ghost, Unsettling, Well as Sane as Tom Riddle can be really, Work In Progress, but not really, mentions of Harry's friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayewritessometimes/pseuds/kayewritessometimes
Summary: It’s dumb, what he’s planning to do. They were enemies. Voldemort would still be celebrating were he alive and Harry dead. He’d be thrilled over Harry dying. There’d be no mourning or the gnawing emptiness of losing one’s— for lack of a better word— soulmate. Because that’s what they were, really. Not in the gaudy romance novel sort of way, but— they were pulled together by Fate. Harry secretly thought it was an apt word, soulmates. But Voldemort, he’d be gloating for months, years, that he finally killed his so-called Chosen One.So, it’s stupid that Harry wants to visit his grave with some flowers and wish it— Him — a Happy Birthday.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 79
Kudos: 462





	1. Oh

**Author's Note:**

> I came across the prompt “Your antagonist has died. Who leaves flowers at their grave?” and immediately envisioned Harry, post-war, visiting Voldemort's headstone on the man's birthday. Then I got a little weepy. 
> 
> This will probably be a three parter, but I suppose it depends on how things go. I have a few scenes planned out for chapter two, and a general idea how i want to end the story, but I got an idea the other day and so it might end up a four or five chaptered fic instead.
> 
> I'm hoping to get everything done by Halloween, but We'll See™

It’s New Year’s Eve, 1998, after 8 P.M. and Harry should be at the Ministry Gala— he snuck out early, instead. He couldn’t stand showing his face at these publicity stunts, but Kingsley insisted. 

Well, that’s fine. Harry did, indeed, show his face— for an hour, _at least_ — so the man can’t complain.

Harry hated doing public outings. After the Battle, the British Wizarding World as a whole seemed ready to bow down and kneel to him or get him to endorse their products or “I have a daughter your age! Might you come meet her?” and “What are your plans for the future?” and he just— he’s _tired_. 

Ever since he woke up in the forest, ever since the spell rebounded onto Him, Harry’s felt— _empty._ He couldn’t put it into words for Hermione and Ron and Ginny without wanting to rage against the world and them and Dumbledore’s tomb. 

There was a gnawing emptiness in him— in the quiet of the night when he couldn’t get to sleep, he mused it was the loss of His Horcrux that had made a home amongst his soul. The thing had grown with and beside and in him as he got older. It’d been a part of him for so long that the loss of it was a palpable disturbance. He never realized it had such a presence until it was gone. Now he felt as if he himself weren’t whole.

He couldn’t burden Ginny or his friends with this. He made it clear to Ginny after everything settled that he just couldn’t see himself in a relationship any time soon. Not a healthy one, anyway. She understood— said something cryptic about how she had a feeling he’d say that. They were still friends, but a bit distant. 

Last he heard, she’s back at Hogwarts to redo her sixth year. McGonagall was allowing all students enrolled in the last year to redo their year of schooling. Many of Harry’s friends took her up on the offer— Hermione tried to convince Ron and him to come back with her for their seventh year and to get their NEWTs, but Harry couldn’t imagine going back to school like everything was fine again. Instead, he’s self-teaching at his own pace with the seventh year books and complementary materials. He plans on taking his NEWTs at the Ministry next summer.

Besides teaching himself, Harry splits his time between public events that Kingsley and his advisors cooked up and hiding himself away in Grimmauld Place with Kreacher. The Minister tried to convince him to join the Aurors when it became clear he wasn’t going back to Hogwarts, but Harry was clear in his refusal. He did his duty, he went up against the darkest of any wizard and he barely survived. He only survived because of sheer dumb luck and another man’s arrogance. He didn’t want anything more to do with taking down dark witches and wizards.

He needed time, and space, and room to himself in the aftermath of life without Him breathing down his neck trying to kill him. 

Only, now there was a longing, a soul-deep _yearning_ for—

Merlin, he didn’t want to admit it to himself even months later.

But he had to. 

He missed Voldemort. 

He missed _Tom Riddle_ and the sliver of soul that made a home in him. He couldn’t stop thinking about what the man would have been like if he never made his first horcrux or any others. If he would have become a politician or if he still would have become a Dark Lord. If he would have been redeemable.

Harry thought too much about the man. He dreamed of him still. Sometimes it’d be handsome Tom Riddle at various ages before the First War— mish-mashed from the memories he saw in Dumbledore’s pensieve— and sometimes it’d be Voldemort with his striking and terrifying post-rebirth snake-face.

Most of the dreams were really nightmares— memories of the torture he and his friends endured at the hands of the man and his lackeys. Other times, he dreamed that he still had the diary and he would talk with the sixteen-year-old memory. Sometimes, he’d dream of the handsome man who charmed his way into Hepzibah Smith’s good graces. Those dreams always turned— _awkward_ , for Harry. He didn’t like to dwell on them— pushed them far into a corner of his mind to only be remembered during moments of weakness in the middle of the night. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced dreams that made him question his sexuality. They were all pushed to that corner of his mind. Growing up, he never allowed himself to dwell on the possibility that he might be into men as well as women. The Dursley’s made their stance on anything not up to the Status Quo quite clear. Between the nasty comments made when an gay politician became and remained a Member of Parliament, or when a soap opera had a gay character or showed a lesbian kiss, or when Aunt Petunia’s book club friends tittered about the gay couple that moved into the neighborhood— well, Harry learned quick that being anything other than what they deemed “Normal” was a good way to get hurt.

He remembers thinking how handsome Cedric was, and there was the small crush he had on Ron’s brother Bill with his long hair and cool earring and rebellious attitude, and as much as he didn’t want to admit to it— there was also his obsession with Draco, with his fair looks. Their rivalry easily could have developed into something else if Draco wasn’t such a prat and if Harry were more sympathetic to Slytherins at the time. Not that Harry would’ve wanted something else with the spoiled little shite. 

But Harry never seriously considered exploring these small inklings of Otherness. It wasn’t expected of him, of the Boy-Who-Lived. It didn’t fit into the image the wizarding world had of him, and damn him, he wanted to fit in desperately when Hagrid gave him the news that he was a Wizard all those years ago. He wanted to belong somewhere for once. He wanted to be welcome in this community away from the Dursleys. 

So if he happened to occasionally dream about Tom, with his aristocratic features and long, thin piano fingers and his tall and thin build; or Cedric, tall and strong and kind— before the lad died and the dreams turned into nightmares of his death; or Draco with his slender build and pointy chin and their banter; or Bill, laid-back and cool with his rebellious long hair and fang earring. Well. It was no one’s business but his own. Nothing would come of any of it, so he looked and he dreamt. But he never engaged or touched. 

Now, Harry was eighteen and out of school, out of a relationship. He used to dream of a life with no responsibilities to anyone but himself. But the wizarding world is always watching, a hound breathing down his neck in the form of reporters and nosy witches and wizards who have no sense. He thought he’d be able to live how he wanted once Voldemort was defeated, and he finished his education, but that was categorically false.

People expected even more of him now and he hated it. He just wanted to live his life for himself now that he actually could. He wanted to experience what a regular, everyday life could be. He wanted to be able to take a bloke out on a date and not have it be splashed all over the papers the next day— sometimes, he thought about trying to date a muggle instead of a witch or wizard, but he didn’t think he could handle lying to them about so much of his life. He couldn’t even date a witch without it being a hot piece of gossip with accompanying background into said witch. The gossip rags went wild during and following his brief relationship with Ginny and he felt bad for her and any other person he might decide to date.

Still. Seven months since the war ended and he was in no shape to be dating, so Harry decides it’s not that big of a deal. Future Harry can deal with relationships and the complexities that encompass one's sexuality. Present Harry just wants to get through the day without wanting to die a little.

As he apparated back to Grimmauld Place, Harry recalled the date. December thirty-first. It was Tom’s birthday. At the top of the stairs to the building, Harry’s chest grew tight.

He thought of the little boy in the orphanage who likely never had a chance or a reason to celebrate his birthday. Never had anyone to love him or hold him kindly or give him a decent birthday gift. He thought of that boy, then that teenager, and then that young man. He mourned for him, and what he could have been if someone had only loved him, in a way that he hadn’t mourned before.

 _Oh._ He thought, eyes going a little misty, coming to a quiet realization that brought goosebumps up on his flesh, a shiver running through his body quick like lightning, and it flamed the quiet yearning in his chest to an inferno. 

He cleared his throat once, twice— didn’t let himself dwell on the realization and the moral quandary it put him in of having feelings for his fated, vanquished enemy that could go nowhere especially since the man was dead at his own hands— before quickly dabbing his eyes dry with his sleeve. 

He unlocked the door with a swift flick of his wand and slipped through his heavy wards, closing the door behind him and locking up again. “Kreacher!”

“Yes, Master Potter?”

“Kreacher, _please_ , just call me Harry. None of that ‘Master’ shite. I’m just Harry.”

It was a common battle in Grimmauld Place— getting Kreacher to acquiesce to certain requests. Harry started paying the elf and gave him the weekends off, amongst other decisions. Kreacher fought him the whole time— he was set in his ways and he didn’t like the change that Harry brought with him. But as he saw Harry as his Master, he would grudgingly comply. 

Usually.

Kreacher narrowed his eyes up at Harry defiantly and didn’t say a word.

Harry sighed. He hoped they’d eventually work this whole business out. “Do you— Erm. Do you know anything about, uh, flowers? Like, the meanings? Or maybe, do you know what the birth month flower is for December?”

He knew a little about flowers himself— had to when he was the one who tended Aunt Petunia’s garden as a child. But he didn’t know what the flowers meant, just how to keep them from dying.

“I do not, Master Potter, but there may be a book on flower language in the library.”

“Okay, thank you, Kreacher.”

It’s dumb, what he’s planning to do. They were enemies. Voldemort would still be celebrating were he alive and Harry dead. He’d be thrilled over Harry dying. There’d be no mourning or the gnawing emptiness of losing one’s— for lack of a better word— _soulmate_. Because that’s what they were, really. Not in the gaudy romance novel sort of way, but— they were pulled together by Fate. Harry secretly thought it was an apt word, soulmates. But Voldemort, he’d be gloating for months, years, that he finally killed his so-called Chosen One.

So, it’s stupid that Harry wants to visit his grave with some flowers and wish it— _Him_ — a Happy Birthday.

In the aftermath of the Battle, many wanted to do hideous, unspeakable things to the Dark Lord’s corpse. Harry _refused_ to let it happen— whether by the common folk or by the Ministry. He couldn’t tell you why he did it, even now months later, but at the time it felt right. He stole away the body before anyone else could and he buried the man near the grove of yew trees in the Little Hangleton graveyard. He’d transfigured a bunch of stones into an elegant, slanted, emerald pearl headstone that said: 

Tom Marvolo Riddle

___Lord Voldemort_

**Born** 31 December 1926 — **Died** 2 May 1998

_May His Soul Be Whole and Find Peace_

Harry hadn’t felt comfortable adding an epitaph at first— what could he possibly say? The man wasn’t a husband, wasn’t a father, and Harry highly doubted Voldemort followed any Muggle religion. But then he had thought of the pitiful creature— His Horcrux — in King’s Cross Station and knew what he could put. 

After, he’d warded the grove of yew trees with so many protective and preventive wards that no one— muggle or otherwise— would be able to deface or destroy the area but especially the transfigured headstone and buried coffin that contained the man’s body.

He remembers standing in front of the headstone for hours— ‘ _Is it really over?_ ’ He remembers thinking, and he’d learn quickly that yes, the war was technically over with Voldemort’s death but there were still his followers to round up and trials to have— when he got the patronus message from Hermione, with worry and a hint of panic in her voice, asking where he went. 

Harry hadn’t been to the graveyard since and he told no one of what happened to the body of the Dark Lord. Not even Hermione, Ron, or Ginny. 

So, now it’s seven months and some days later and Harry recalls the man’s birthday. Thus the, once again, stupid plan to visit the headstone with flowers.

Harry sighs heavily to himself as he shrugs off the heavy formal robe he wore to the Ministry Gala and hangs it on a coat rack, before heading up the stairs for the library. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right. Conjuring meaningful flowers and going there _tonight_ — or never.

Merlin, he must have truly lost his mind now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [tumblr](https://kayewritessometimes.tumblr.com)


	2. Grudgingly Given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But between one second and thirty years, there’s a longing that is and isn’t his own and he blinks.
> 
> Tom wakes amongst a grove of yew trees, but he is not… he is not the same. His soul is whole once more— _a quiet yearning, for something he doesn’t understand—_ but his body is no longer physical. He has a moment of panic— _I’m not a wraith, I’m not, I’m not, I’m_ not— but it settles quickly when he can make out features of his body. But he sees through his hands and feet and he feels— he can’t feel his hands on his face.
> 
>  _Ghost_. His mind is quick to come to the conclusion. He’s come back as a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone that's read, kudosed, bookmarked, subscribed, and/or commented!!! I was hella nervous posting the first chapter and receiving all the love y'all gave was heartening.
> 
> I put off writing this chapter for two weeks because I was absolutely terrified of trying to write from Tom's perspective lmao, but I made a promise to at least get a second chapter posted by Halloween, so here we are.
> 
> Just a minor warning, there's a heavy sense of unsettlement throughout. Don't really know how else to explain it, but I liked how it came out.

When Tom finally returned to _being_ , he didn’t know where he was at first.

The last thing he remembered was— golden flames, a sound like a cannon blast, the Elder Wand flying towards Potter, and green, _green_ , _**green**_ as his spell rebounded onto him for the last time. Then shades of white and gray and black mixing and melting into nothingness, for he was nothing. Thoughts were meaningless, and he was meaningless. The laws of physics held no meaning and the things he saw were incomprehensible for his mortal mind— for he had no mind. And he was waiting, but for _what, what was he waiting on_ — but this does not concern him because he must wait regardless. But time is an illusion and does not exist. He may have been there for a second or he could have been there for thirty years— there is no way to tell.

Until.

Unimaginable pain as his essence is ripped and torn and shredded— he doesn't know how long it lasts but eventually he _begs_ , “Please, _please_ , I’m sorry, please, _stop_!” — and then new— _old,_ decades _old, where have they been, ripped from his being; how could he have forgotten how it feels to be whole_ — essence pulled from the far ends of the Nothing and returned to him. Fixed, prodded, surgically sewn back up into One. Whole. Singular.

The pain ends— was it a second? Or _thirty years_? — and he settles as much as any being can when they are Nothing.

Peace. It is grudgingly given, like a stingy child being forced to share their toys.

He is given the vague impression— what was that in the corner of his eye? A being incomprehensible to his mortal mind, that strikes a primal fear within him, allows him to witness them, but he blinks and again there is Nothing; nothing but the deep-seated, gut-churning Fear— that he is meant to be grateful. That if he were a physical being in this moment he should worship at the feet of the one who granted this peace to his soul— has he ever known such a peace?

But between one second and thirty years, there’s a longing that is and isn’t his own and he blinks.

Tom wakes amongst a grove of yew trees, but he is not… he is not the same. His soul is whole once more— _a quiet yearning, for something he doesn’t understand—_ but his body is no longer physical. He has a moment of panic— _I’m not a wraith, I’m not, I’m not, I’m_ not— but it settles quickly when he can make out features of his body. But he sees through his hands and feet and he feels— he can’t feel his hands on his face.

 _Ghost_. His mind is quick to come to the conclusion. He’s come back as a ghost.

Tom has never been in touch with non-violent emotions, except perhaps when he was a child, and so the sorrow he feels is unexpected. There’s longing for a physical, flesh and blood, body— more than a decade as a wraith has left him furious and petrified of being without.

But between his fear of Death— the incomprehensible Being and State that blinks in and out of the corner of his eye and leaves his mind cowering with fear— and a sense of unfinished business and a longing that isn’t but _is_ his own; well, it leaves him as a ghost.

He floats amongst the trees and comes across a slab of stone that is made of shades of green and gray and black. It’s a headstone. It’s slanted and elegant and—

Tom blinks as he reads the engraving.

_Who would—_

_Why would—_

He takes a deep breath that does nothing for him for he no longer has lungs, but it’s a habit when you’re a living person that is hard to forget when you’re no longer living.

Who would go to the trouble of conjuring Tom Marvolo Riddle and Lord Voldemort a headstone?

Then his eyes land of the epitaph and—

At first, Tom’s thoughts go like this— with sentimentality like that, I’d say Dumbledore but I saw his corpse with my own two eyes, he’s _dead_. So who— one of my followers, perhaps? Bellatrix? No. No, she died too. Then _who?_ Who would—

Then he remembers the longing that was and wasn’t his own; he still feels it whining inside of him. As if he could ever forget it or quiet it. He remembers the peace his soul felt for the first time when he was and wasn’t Nothing— the sense that he should be grateful, _or else_.

_May His Soul Be Whole and Find Peace_

Says the epitaph and Tom is sure if he had functioning lungs he wouldn’t be breathing in that moment.

Whoever conjured this headstone— whoever buried him here— is likely the reason his soul is whole and why he felt peace for that brief— _or did it last for thirty years_ — moment.

If not Dumbledore and his sentimentality, then who?

“Potter.” Tom said immediately, his eyebrows raised and furrowed, his jaw slacked.

But, _why_ , why would Potter bother?

 _Why_ would he take such care of his enemy’s body, of his enemy’s resting place?

It makes no sense to him.

He never would have done the same for Potter, to be frank. A small part of his being— _the same part where the longing and yearning that is and isn’t his own resides_ — clenches at the thought of what he would have done, the violence of what he would have allowed. But he was never given the chance so he doesn’t need to dwell on the thought.

Tom turns his back to the slanted headstone. Even as a ghost he can sense the strength of the wards put on the grove, his headstone, and the coffin in the ground that holds his corpse. The magic of the wards is distinctly— _Potter_.

No mistaking it now— _but why?!_

No matter. The question he should be asking is can he even leave the grove?

A minute— an hour? A day? _Thirty years?_ — of exploring the grove, of testing boundaries, leads him to the conclusion that, no. He can’t leave.

He’s a ghost.

And he’s bloody _stuck_ here amongst the grove of yew trees in the cemetery of Little Hangleton.

* * *

He doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been on this plane, what with time being an illusion and thus not real, but it must have been months for there is now snow on the ground and within the branches of the trees. Tom is floating up in the yew tree closest to his headstone, sitting against the trunk, lost in his thoughts when he senses a presence approaching the grove.

Potter.

Tom masks himself as much as he can— utilizing a form of energy, perhaps magic, he’s discovered he can manipulate in this form if he concentrates— and watches the young man approach his headstone, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold, his lips were downturned, his black hair wild as ever, and there were dark circles under his green eyes which were somewhat hidden by the rim of his round glasses.

Potter pulled his wand— _must be new_ — and conjured a memorial vase before using a permanent sticking charm so it could sit on the base of the headstone without being moved or knocked over. He cleared his throat once, twice, before slowly putting the bouquet in the vase.

 _He brought flowers— he’s visiting— he, why,_ what _is he doing here—_

“You’re probably furious with me for basically killing you, but I can also see you laughing, scoffing at me for doing all of this.” Potter gives a short, seemingly pained chuckle as he gestures wildly to the headstone and then around to the grove. “I shouldn’t have come here, I know this, but earlier tonight when I realized it was your birthday... I thought about that little boy in the orphanage. I thought about how he likely... he likely never had someone there to treat him kindly, and so…” He pauses, takes a deep breath, then says, “Happy Birthday, Tom.”

Shocked. Incredulous. Baffled. _Touched_.

That small part of him that had gotten louder as the months passed by, with it’s longing and it’s yearning that was and wasn’t his own, was screaming at him now— really, it started as soon as he could sense Potter in the grove— and it urged him to make his presence known. But he refused. He couldn’t. Not _yet_.

Potter sighed, dragged a hand through his wild, black locks before stilling for a brief moment. In the next, he plopped down in front of the headstone, casting a warming charm on his robes before putting his wand away.

“It’s been seven months since the war ended and I still haven’t settled.” He begins, sat casually cross-legged like he was sitting with a friend. “Ending the war only increased everyone’s expectations of me. They make it difficult to be able to be my own person. Kingsley— he became Minister by the way— and his advisors guilt and obligate me into going to public events that I hate with my entire being. I couldn’t bring myself to return to Hogwarts, or become an Auror,” Potter pauses, then mutters quietly, “Couldn’t bring myself to continue dating Ginny either— nothing feels right anymore.”

Tom floated down from the tree, careful to remain hidden from Potter’s sight. The young man now leaned his face against his fist, his arm leaning on his knee. An indent was forming between his brows as they furrowed, his lips were pinched.

“Ever since I lost… lost the piece of you, the Horcrux... and after your spell rebounded back onto you, I’ve felt—“ He groans and buries his face in his hands. “I’ve felt bloody empty. You carved out a space inside of me. Our souls touched for years, and I… Merlin, this is so stupid, but I miss you, I miss the piece of you that was with me, part of me, made a _home_ in me.”

Tom is sure that his eyes have never been this wide, his jaw never been so slack. What in the world is he hearing? He inches closer to Potter without realizing it. His words strike a chord within Tom— if they were true, would it explain that small part of him that seems to long for the young man in front of him? And that’s what it is, he sees this now. It longs for Potter, longs to be back in the home it carved into the young man. Or at the very least, to be near him. Close, and closer still. It defies all logic— _why_ would he _ever_ long for Potter? But tell that to his _soul_. He's certain he's going into shock— the disparity between his mind and soul is jarring, of what he knows and what he _knows_.

“With you and it both gone, I feel untethered. What am I supposed to do now? Am I supposed to pretend everything is fine? That the end of the war was the best thing ever?” Potter scoffs as he drags his hands down his face before folding his arms against his chest. “Am I glad there’s no longer a war? Yes, of course. Too many witches, wizards, creatures, and beings have died already. Too many families were broken apart and wiped out. We’re a small population already— we can’t afford to lose anyone else to war. So, yes, I’m relieved the war is over.”

The older man copies Potter’s actions and drags a hand down his face in soul-deep exhaustion. _He has a point._ With his soul whole, his mind is clearer than it's been since he was sixteen and ripped his soul, and he does feel remorse for the innocent magical lives lost needlessly. The remorse is faint— _unfamiliar_ — but it’s there. The fact that he can even _feel_ it... leaves him stumped because he’s never felt remorse for his actions before. Not even as a child when he hung Billy's rabbit from the rafters or traumatized Dennis and Amy or stole from the other children in the orphanage.

“But… But more than relieved, I can’t help the overwhelming, gnawing, soul-deep emptiness inside me. Nothing fills it, nothing puts it off. It is always present, always screaming for my attention, always, _always_ yearning for what’s been ripped away.”

Inching closer still to Potter, his presence masked for as long as he concentrates, Tom can’t help but be drawn to his words, to the feelings the words invoke. His soul is _begging_ him to reach out— his mind is still partly in shock, partly yelling that This Is Not Normal, This Is Not Right, This Has Never Happened Before, _Why Is This Happening_.

“So. It’s your birthday. I’ve, uh, come with flowers… Had to do some research on flower meanings so I wouldn’t get it wrong…” He muttered, the pink on his cheeks deepening from embarrassment. “Don’t bloody laugh, alright, wherever you are. I wanted to do a kind thing, so... so just accept them.”

He clears his throat once before gesturing at the different flowers in the vase. “King’s spear, or yellow asphodel, for regret; pink camellias for, _uh_ , longing; purple verbena for I pray for you— because I do, maybe not in the religious sense, but I hope you’re whole and at peace; harebells for grief; rosemary for remembrance; and there’s a couple of yew twigs in there too which have several meanings, but mostly I thought it apt since it was the wood of your wand and, well, because I also buried you amongst a grove of yew trees… but, um, they can mean sorrow, reincarnation, penitence, amongst others…” Potter at this point is wringing his hands nervously as if he really is seated in front of Tom and waiting for his reaction. He fidgets with the sleeve of the heavy winter robe he wears for a moment before sighing.

“I should go… But… But I’ll probably visit again…”

Tom watches as Potter stands and he knows he’s about to leave— _wait_ , don’t—

“Don’t… Don’t leave yet, Potter.”

The young man freezes like he’s been hit with a glacius charm, before he mechanically turns his head towards Tom where he’s floating a few feet away from Potter’s side, finally letting go of the energy that was masking his presence.

Potter’s breath hitches as he lays eyes on Tom’s ghostly form. He croaks out a weak, “T… Tom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried with the flower meanings but yo, I'm not a florist nor do I really care about presenting a message with them. I just wanted some flowers that fit the situation and were meaningful. And I feel like Harry'd be of the same mind.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [tumblr](https://kayewritessometimes.tumblr.com)


	3. Beauty, or the one where Harry's bi heart leaves him wanting to wax poetical about brown eyes and piano fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wonders if the question will be about this weird longing he feels— does Tom feel it too? Did he feel empty until they found each other again? Did his soul cry out for its previous home, for the spot that it made its own enclosed in and amongst Harry’s own soul during the years it resided within him? He could feel the blush crawling up his neck to his cheeks as he realized with a vague sense of dread that Tom must have heard him talking earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I just want to again thank everyone who gave kudos, bookmarked, subscribed, and/or commented! Y'all are so amazing and I'm grateful for your kind words and for all the love you've shown.
> 
> Second, I just wanna say that lmao I struggled to finish this chapter because 1) this past month and a half has been absolutely wild and distracting and I just could not focus for the life of me to just get it done until now; and 2) Imposter Syndrome is awful and I struggled with that and my own sense of perfectionism. Managed to get bits and pieces written here and there, some editing done when I could focus, and this is the end product. I'm content. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this as much as I ultimately enjoyed writing it.

It’s in the split second after recognizing Tom that Harry feels it. The soul-deep warmth, the fullness, the pure beacon of belonging that his soul has been yearning for these last few months. It confuses Harry, because it makes absolutely no sense to him— this longing he’s felt and tried his best to ignore and avoid. 

Tom, Voldemort— they’re one and the same, and he’s caused so much pain and heartbreak and destruction. There’s no dismissing this or ignoring it or waving it away. People died. Families were torn apart, Harry’s included. But as Tom floats closer to him now, Harry can’t help but feel relieved at seeing him.

The ghostly form in front of him is not Voldemort as Harry knows and remembers him. He instead resembles the Diary version of Tom, but older. Perhaps what he would’ve looked like in his thirties if he hadn’t messed around with splitting his soul. 

Short, neat black hair parted on the right— Harry’s eyes linger on the hair and his brain feels like it’s just tripped because ‘He has hair’ is now repeating in his mind; dark brown eyes that Harry knew would look somewhat red in the light due to the amber flecks amongst the brown— eyes that would later turn scarlet once he continued to split his soul; smooth, pale skin; high, sharp cheekbones and an aristocratic nose— seeing him with a _nose_ in person, and not in a dream or a memory from the pensieve, was jarring to Harry’s senses, perhaps more so than the fact that he has hair, can he just say; tall and long-limbed; and those _damned_ thin, long piano fingers that drove Harry crazy in those dreams that he never likes to think too much about. All recognizable features to Harry, but they’re under the ghostly, translucent sheen that tells him that Tom isn’t alive in the flesh, but has come back as a ghost.

He hurries to stand up from his seat on the cold ground in front of Tom’s headstone, and his heart feels like it’s stuck in his throat. “Tom? Tom, is it… is it really you?” He has to ask. He knows already, but he’s baffled as to _how_ Tom is here in front of him right now. Harry was under the impression that Tom’s soul was doomed, unable to move on to whatever true afterlife there was yet unable to come back as a ghost, because of how damaged and torn his soul ended up. Was he wrong? Was _Dumbledore_ wrong?

Tom stops floating three feet away from Harry. His arms are by his sides but his fingers fidget aimlessly every few seconds like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands as if he’s nervous or uncomfortable. But his face is clear, blank, like the best of the traditional Slytherins that Harry went to school with or met after the war. 

“Potter, obviously it’s me. But don’t—” He pauses, frowns slightly, then gives a great sigh. It’s more emotion shown in this moment than Harry's seen in the last few. Tom moves to run a hand through his hair— he has _hair_ , Harry’s brain pointlessly tells him _again_ — but stops, dropping his hand back to his side. “Nevermind. It’s not important right now. I have a question for you.”

Harry wonders if the question will be about this weird longing he feels— does Tom feel it too? Did he feel empty until they found each other again? Did his soul cry out for its previous home, for the spot that it made its own enclosed in and amongst Harry’s own soul during the years it resided within him? He could feel the blush crawling up his neck to his cheeks as he realized with a vague sense of dread that Tom must have heard him talking earlier. 

“Were you the one to conjure this headstone? The one to bury me? Did you cast any wards here?” Tom asks one question after another in quick succession with a demanding tone, but there’s a sense of knowing to it; like he already came to the conclusion that it was Harry that did these things— he just needs confirmation.

Not the questions Harry expected right then, especially not from Tom. He never thought he’d have the chance to talk to Tom or Voldemort ever again except in his dreams, but he figured he’d have to answer these questions at some point. Might as well be now. 

He brings a hand up and scratches his scruffy cheek. _‘Knew I should’ve shaved before going to the gala.’_

“Well… After the battle and the dust settled, some of the Order had _ideas_ of what to do with your corpse. None of it felt right to me. Some of it felt like something you or one of your followers might do, no offence. It was such a hypocritical thing, and I just…” Harry groans in frustration as he drags his hands into his already messy black hair. It was difficult sometimes trying to express why he does things. He just did them, he didn’t know all the why’s sometimes, at least not all of them. 

“I couldn’t let them do that. I couldn’t let them further the violence. I’m sure they would have wound up displaying your corpse somewhere public as proof of your death, or maybe my panic convinced me of this... I just… couldn’t let that happen. It would have been disrespectful and— Merlin, hasn’t there been enough brutality in this world already?”

Tom stares at Harry unblinkingly, his face blank from emotion— and he realizes that Tom likely doesn’t need to blink, or breathe, anymore. But Tom does give a slow blink before he unnecessarily clears his throat once before saying in an overly serious, formal voice, “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry’s brain short circuits. He blinks three times in quick succession as he comprehends A) the gratitude, and B) Tom using his first name. It settles quickly, and _oh_ , those butterflies fluttering around in his stomach kick up a fuss as Tom saying his name plays on repeat in his mind. 

“You… You don’t have to, uh, thank me. It was the right thing to do.” He pauses before nervously pushing on. “I know you wouldn’t have done the same for me, at least not how you were at the time of the Battle. Dunno about now either, but you seem… calmer?” Harry stares at Tom, holding his gaze for a beat, as if trying to suss out how or why Tom seems calmer in death, before lowering his eyes to the bridge of Tom’s nose. “Uh, but I understand that you would have done things differently than me. I knew that when I did what I did. I just… I still needed to do it.”

Tom floats closer, just a few inches, and his face looks pensive, contemplative. His stare holds Harry frozen in place; in the back of his mind, Harry contemplates all the ways he could describe Tom’s eyes. Saying they’re brown just doesn’t do them justice. If he had the time he feels like he could write poems about the man’s eyes, and likely write line after line about the amber flecks within them, but perhaps only after he wrote one or three or seven about the man’s hands. 

He’s never written poetry before, and it probably wouldn’t be award winning, but it’d be true— the feelings that Tom, and his piece of soul that once wound around, and burrowed amongst Harry’s own, evokes in him and the ways he catches himself staring in awe at the beauty the man holds. Privately, he remembers this beauty and what it turned into. Harry shakes his head, as if to shake the thoughts from his mind, and concentrates on what the man in front of him is saying.

“You are right. I wouldn’t have done the same for you. Even now, I don’t know what I would have done, but I can’t pretend I would have been kind or generous or insufferably noble. So, in this, you are wrong. I _do_ have to thank you, Harry. For being noble enough to give your enemy a burial.” 

Harry swallows heavily before he rubs the back of his neck as he looks away from Tom for the first time that night. It is so difficult not to stare at him, the handsome bastard, and to see that he’s really here in front of Harry. He glances down at the headstone, folds his arms against his chest, then says, “Alright then, I accept your thanks. But, yeah, I put wards up. Around your casket, your headstone, and this yew grove. Some were to protect the area from wild animals, insects, and weather. Some were to protect from outside interference from people, preventing people from coming across your headstone to damage it or the area. Mostly protection wards. Why?”

“I am unable to leave.” Tom floats agitatedly in front of Harry, and his hands fidget again. He frowns, his brow furrowed, as he continues to stare at Harry. “I have tried since I materialized here, but the wards are preventing me from leaving.”

A large part of Harry is relieved that Tom wasn’t able to leave. If he had, Harry may not have ever known that Tom came back as a ghost. But in any case, he had no idea how Tom was stuck in this grove.

“I have no idea how you’re stuck here…” Harry glanced around the small clearing within the grove, as if by looking around he’d find an answer. “I don’t know if one of the wards maybe messes with ghosts or, uh, _incorporeal beings_? Most of them were just wards we used on the run, some were ones I picked up from the Black library. I don’t think they were ever tested with ghosts. Maybe Hermione knows...” Harry looks back to Tom. ‘ _I could try removing them…’_ He thinks but doesn’t say. Not yet.

Tom’s brow is still furrowed and his lips are now pinched in frustration. Harry could understand why— being stuck here alone for the foreseeable future would distress him too.

“Bring the wards down.” Tom demands, his arms now crossed in front of his chest. He is solid in body language where he isn’t in physical form. It tells Harry that he’s stubborn and willing to fight on this.

Harry arches an eyebrow at the demand. But before either of them reacts further, Harry gets an idea that is objectively terrible but the fact that the emptiness, the yearning he knows is from his soul, is all but gone in Tom’s presence gives him the courage he needs to suggest it. He knows that were he to leave now without the other man that the emptiness would return, the yearning strengthened to a fever pitch now that he’s been in Tom’s presence once more.

“Here’s my offer. I take the wards down, but once you’re free I’ll put them back up to keep this place safe.” Harry pauses nervously, glancing quickly at Tom’s face before looking back down at the headstone. “Then you come back with me to my home and stay with me there.”

There’s a long, significant pause. “And _why_ would I do _that_?”

“Because you, too, feel relief with me here, don’t you?” Harry asks, the hope evident in his voice as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe, and fidgets with a loose thread, as he stares up at the other man from beneath his eyelashes.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He says haltingly, defensively. All of his practice as a Slytherin, as a Leader, falters and his emotions are plain on his face. His sharp eyebrows raised, his eyes widened slightly, his stare intense.

“You do. I _know_ you do. But you don’t have to say it. I’ll be honest for the both of us.” Harry has no idea what he’s doing now. ‘ _Why am I saying this? This isn’t right. How I’m feeling isn’t right. This is stupid, what if he’s not even experiencing it too? He almost definitely heard me earlier talking to his headstone, he already knows, I shouldn’t mention it again.’_ He thinks to himself before recklessly, impulsively, bravely going for it anyway.

“I’ve felt empty since you killed the Horcrux in me. I’ve felt empty since your spell rebounded on you and you died. I’ve not felt right, or whole, or stable since the battle. Until I felt your presence here tonight. I shouldn’t feel like losing the Horcrux was like losing a part of myself, shouldn’t feel like your absence made the emptiness grow, but I do. We’re enemies. We’ve always been against each other. But I feel such relief, deep within my soul, knowing and seeing and _hearing_ you here in front of me. I don’t understand it at all. And if you feel anything similar, you probably understand it less than I do. So... Let’s figure it out together.”

It felt like something of a love confession, Harry realizes after he finishes speaking as his dread spikes and blood floods his cheeks in embarrassment. 

Tom’s body language was stiff, frozen, with an expression so blank Harry had to silently congratulate him on being able to fix his expression so quickly and keep a straight face in the face of a monologue like that. He looks back down at the ground as he starts to panic. ‘ _This was stupid, I should never have come here, why did I—’_

Tom clears his throat and gains Harry’s attention once more. As Harry drags his gaze up from the ground to Tom’s face he can see now that he’s disarmed the man with his words once more. It’s in the cracks of his mask, the cracks in his stance, the parting of his lips.

He begins to speak stiltedly, pausing every so often as if to gather his thoughts and his own courage all at once. “...I must admit that I...I, too, have felt… a… a _longing_ that makes no sense to me intellectually. It has only worsened in the months since I have been stuck here amongst these trees, but I did not understand what my soul was longing for or _why_. But... then I sensed your arrival the minute you walked into the grove…” 

Harry’s heart feels like it’ll beat right out of his chest, that the butterflies in his stomach will surely gnaw their way out to make themselves known, and he’s almost entirely sure that he MUST be dreaming because _what_? What is Tom saying to him right now?!

Tom pauses longer, tilting his head to the side slightly as if contemplating whether he should continue speaking. He catches Harry’s wide eyes and holds his stare with his own narrowed eyes. He must have decided to continue because he gives a little nod then he says, “There is relief, yes, but Harry, it has been screaming for me to be close to you and I don’t rightly understand it at all except... that perhaps the piece of my soul that resided in you— my Horcrux, and wasn’t that a discovery? Learning that you were _mine_ for all that time— yearns to be close to your soul again. Perhaps... your soul wishes to be close to mine once more as well.”

By this point, Harry thinks his face must be the exact shade of red from his old Gryffindor tie. ‘ _Who just says stuff like that. Does he hear himself? Does he understand the— the implications?’_ But Harry supposes he started this, he offered up his honesty first. He just didn’t expect honesty back. At least, he’s almost eighty percent sure Tom is being honest with him. He’s definitely different from before, it’s painstakingly obvious the man in front of him is no longer Voldemort and it’s not just because Harry’s heart trips over itself every time his eyes linger over the man’s features.

Harry rubs one of his warm cheeks then drops his hand down to his side. He nervously looks away, before clearing his throat and glances back at Tom. “Uh. Yeah. That, uh… That does sound like what I’m feeling. It makes some sort of sense. That piece of your soul was tangled around mine for so long... there must have been, I don’t know... a… a bleed-through effect maybe? My soul’s effect on yours, and vice versa?”

There’s a pause, as Harry thinks for a moment. “How… Do you know… How are you here? I’m assuming your soul… Is it whole again?”

Tom grimaces as he looks away from Harry. “It is hard to describe, and I don’t know for certain how I am here as a ghost. But my theory consists, impossibly, of the epitaph you engraved in the headstone you conjured for me. You wished, hoped, so fervently for my soul to be whole and at peace. And while I was… nothing and everything, one and many… I remember. I remember as my pieces were dragged through the nothing and hand-stitched back together. I remember the agony of it. I felt everything despite being nothing. But once it was done, I felt at peace. The peace was grudgingly given. It was brief and once it ended, I awoke here in this grove.”

“Who… What… What do you think put you back together again?”

“Death. Unquestioningly. It was Death, from the stories about the Deathly Hallows. Fear beyond imagining, such an incomprehensible being that I couldn’t see because I was not a being with eyes at the time, but I could still sense them. I cannot describe in a coherent way what they feel like but I knew. I knew what they were. You told me. You told me that it wasn’t Snape, nor Draco, nor Dumbledore who was the Master of the Elder Wand. It was you. You had the cloak, too, didn’t you? Potter family heirloom, yes? Did you have the stone? Did you hold all three?” He asks in increasingly demanding, implicating, tones.

Harry balks. “You can’t be implying…”

“When I killed you— or, rather, when I killed my Horcrux in you… Do you remember the inbetween?”

“Well… Yes. It… It was King’s Cross Station, at least that’s what it looked like to me. I met… Well, I met with who I think was Dumbledore… I saw the… the… your Horcrux wailing, curled under one of the benches… I tried to help it, but Dumbledore said there was no way to help… I see now that he lied. Again. Or perhaps he didn’t think it was possible… I was given a choice. I could Go On, and die for good. Or I could Come Back, and wake up from the floor of the forest and keep fighting.” Harry pauses, a frown forming on his face. The dark bags under his eyes tell the story of countless sleepless nights. His shoulders slump as he drags a hand down his face and over the scruff of his cheek. “I was so tired. I wanted to see my parents, Sirius, Remus. I wanted to be at peace. But I had to keep fighting. Everyone was relying on me…”

Harry pauses for a long moment, his eyes darting quickly around the grove then back up at Tom. He sighs, and there’s exhaustion clear in the heft of it. He feels like he’s eighty in this moment instead of eighteen. “You think I became the Master of Death. That my… That my wishes for your soul, but my soul’s longing for the piece of you that resided in me, is what made you whole. That Death was obligated by that to put you back together. That the peace given grudgingly, and briefly, was their response to my wishes. And bringing you back to this plane of existence was the cherry on top.” 

Tom gives a heavy nod, his gaze darting from the ground then slowly back up Harry’s form until stopping at his eyes. “I do. It’s the only fathomable explanation, no matter how utterly ludicrous it sounds…” He pauses, then floats closer to Harry. He’s right in front of him now, perhaps too close. “If it’s true, then I owe you. I owe you much already. So, to answer your earlier question, once you bring the wards down I suppose I will go with you to your home.” 

Harry swallows heavily. He hasn’t considered the ramifications of having Tom as a housemate. What if Hermione or Ron or Ginny visit? Sure, Hermione and Ginny are at Hogwarts right now, but what about Ron? 

But his soul is content in his presence. He feels whole, settled, complete. He can’t let Tom go free and _not_ go with him, so the only option is to have Tom come with him to Grimmauld Place. 

He gives a small, shaky grin as he looks up at a Tom. Green eyes lock onto brown. 

“Then let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
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